I Don't Complain
by Boyfrom0z
Summary: Watson muses on his life with Holmes - how it is and how he'd like it to be. Stream of consciousness. Slash. One-shot. Rated for mild guy/guy.


_AN: I've never written for Sherlock Holmes before and it's been years since I've read any of the stories, but after seeing the movie I couldn't keep my hands off this oh so slashable fandom. I've no idea if their voices are right. I tried to call on my very foggy memories of the stories, but I describe Holmes as the Holmes from the recent film so that's why this is under movies. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!_

_Oh and this is for Roxas. You know who you are, of course.  
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When I was young all the other little boys wanted to grow up to have trilling adventures and chase criminals and save the world (or at least London). I, on the other hand, had more practical dreams. I wanted to be a doctor.

So while my classmates spent their recesses playing cops and robbers and their classes staring out the window thinking about recess, I applied myself to my studies with greatest diligence. I cannot much say what became of my schoolfellows and their dreams, but I myself went on to study medicine and I did indeed become a doctor.

I could have continued happily along that path, but then I met Sherlock Holmes.

And, to be blunt, my life pretty much went to hell.

Granted it was an exciting hell, probably very much like the dreams of my classmates at school, but it was not a hell I had ever intended to occupy my days with. Do not misunderstand me when I refer to my life with Holmes as "hell." It wasn't suffering or fire and brimstone, but it was certainly . . . chaotic. Living with or even near Holmes is a bit like living with an extremely intelligent tornado.

For those of you who have never had the pleasure of living with a tornado, I shall do my best to describe it for you. Holmes is many things: a detective, a drug-addict, a genius – to name a few. He has very little sense of organization or of hygiene or of which shirts are mine and that he shouldn't wear them. He is liable to leave one thing at a moment's notice for something else he finds to be more interesting and perhaps never return to the first thing, leaving it to me to clean it up. He cannot be stopped once he sets his mind to something. He doesn't care for people the way your average man does. It is not that he has no emotional connections; he just is more likely to use his friends than most people are. Trust me, I know. Holmes is brilliant, but he's a mess.

And that's where I come in.

Not to imply that I'm Holmes' babysitter, but I do seem to spend a awful lot of time cleaning up his mess, whether it's picking up our rooms or soothing the Scotland Yard after a particularly havoc-ridden case.

Holmes is many things, but there's one he's not.

Holmes is not my lover.

That sounds like I'm trying to dispel rumors; I'm not. In fact, I must admit that part of me wishes that I was. But there are not, to my knowledge, even whispers that Holmes is my lover. That idea is purely a fantasy on my part.

As I sit in our rooms watching him pour over case files or smoke his pipe or endlessly tune his violin until late into the night, all I can think is why. Why did I get landed with such a train wreck of a genius partner? Why do I spend my life following him around and cleaning up after him and allowing him to get me into all sorts of trouble? Why does it bother me so much every time a beautiful woman shows up with a case for him? Why does he never look at me the way I long for him to? Why am I able to track down and face the meanest villains in England, but yet I cannot put my own feelings into words? In short, why me?

Tonight Holmes is absorbed in file of newspaper clippings, letters, and maps. I sit pretending to read the evening paper, turning pages ideally when it seems the right amount of time has gone by. However, I don't even see the lines print before me. I am watching the furors deepen on Holmes' brow, watching his deep brow eyes dart back and forth across the text before him.

"Watson," he says suddenly and without looking up. "I am aware you haven't been reading that paper, you know."

"Your powers of observation never cease to amaze, Holmes," I reply calmly, my eyes back on the paper.

"What are you thinking about?"

"You tell me," I mutter. Blasted genius probably already knows, of course.

"Me."

What did I tell you?

"Really?" I say causally, lowering the paper to find Holmes' brown eyes are now fixed on my countenance.

"Really," he repeats just as causally.

"And what, pray tell, am I think about you?"

He studies me for a moment before answering.

"You were watching me work," he begins. "Possibly admiring my talent, possibly speculating that I work too much. But," he continues, "I don't think you were actually interested in what I was doing, rather the general concept of me."

I don't know whether to try to stop him or not, but, as I've said, trying to stop Holmes is rather like trying to stop a train by simply leaning against it whilst it is going full tilt, so I don't bother trying.

"You find me fascinating, even after all this time." He cocks his head to one side, contemplating me. "I dare say you find me attractive." He watches my reaction, which I try to suppress though I suspect I fail. Holmes smiles and I _know_ I failed. "Watson," he says, standing up from his mess of papers on the floor and crossing to my chair. "Get up, let me have a look at you."

I do as I'm told, following his orders as always and he looks me up and down, pacing side to side in order to view me from every angle. At last he stops, his face only a few inches from my own. I can feel his breath on my skin and my own breath seems to catch in my chest and it is all I can do to keep it regular. One would think that after all this time I would have grown immune to him, but alas, his hold on me only grows stronger every day.

"Watson," he says at last, "I believe I am about to something rather reckless."

"Imagine that," I say, forcing the words out.

Before I can try to imagine what he might be referring to, Holmes is kissing me.

As a doctor, I could easily explain what this entails, but as a (dare I say it?) lover I am at a total loss and I fear I must leave it up to you to imagine how I felt at that moment.

It isn't a particularly long kiss and when Holmes pulls away he has a very queer look on his face. His mouth looks happy, his brow confused, and there is glint of triumph in his eyes.

"My dear Watson," he says. "We really must talk more often." And with that he turns and goes out of the room, leaving me alone staring at the closed door and wondering what new hell I've landed myself in this time.


End file.
